AN GLASCHU

Oidhche Shathuirn air Stràid Jamaica

is feasgar na Sàbaid air Great Western Road ,

a ‘ coiseachd ‘ s a ‘ coiseachd anns an t – saoghal ùr ;

sìtheanan anns na gàrraidhean ,

giobal ‘ s an deoch air ann an doras bùthadh ,

an Soisgeul a ‘ tighinn rèidh ás a ‘ chùbainn ;

“ Eil fada bho nach d ‘ fhuair sibh bhon taigh ?”

Is gaoth nan clobhsaichean ,

is fasgadh ann an oisinn ,

gaoth an iar – ‘ eas le teanga fhliuch ,

buntàta ‘ s sgadan ,

tiormachd na mine an cùl na h – amhach ,

glagadaich ann an gàrradh nan soithichean ,

a ‘ chailleach a ‘ gearain air prìs an èisg ;

“ Bi ‘ g òl ruma ‘ s na bi sgrìobhadh dhachaigh .

An daorach air Stràid Jamaica ,

an traoghadh air Great Western Road ,

an Soisgeul anns a ‘ ghàrradh ,

sìtheanan anns a ‘ mhuilinn – fhlùir ,

a ‘ chailleach anns a ‘ chlobhs ,

is tiormachd ann an cùl na h – amhach ;

“ BHEIL FADA BHO NACH D ‘ FHUAIR SIBH BHON TAIGH ?”

Ruaraidh MacThòmais

IN GLASGOW

Saturday night on Jamaica Street

And Sunday evening on Great Western Road,

Walking, walking in the new world;

Flowers in the yards,

A young fellow, tight, in a shop doorway,

The Gospel coming quietly from the pulpit;

“Is it long since you heard from home?”

And the wind in the closes,

Taling shelter in a corner,

A wet-tongued south-west wind,

Potatoes and herring,

Meal-dryness in the back of the throat,

A clatter in the shipyard,

The landlady complaining of the price of fish;

“Drink rum and don’t write home.”

Jamaica Street plastered,

A dry throat on Great Western Road,

The Gospel in the Garden,

Flowers in the meal-mill,

The old woman in the close,

And dryness at the back of the throat;

“IS IT LONG SINCE YOU HEARD FROM HOME?”

Derick Thomson

Glaschu

Smaoinich

Nan tiginn a-steach do Ghlaschu

Na mo shìoda molach

(mar a chaidh fear nam ballads uair)

A’ stad aig na solais dhearga

A’ gluasad aig na solais uaine

(air chrith mar easgann)

’s gun cuirinn gach taigh mòr ud ann am bàrdachd

’s ann am bogsa gach sràid is solas

’s gum biodh mo shùilean a’ lasadh neon

’s gum bithinn cho fuar cho fuar cho blàth cho blàth

’s na sgòthan uisge-beatha a’ gabhail seachad

Is Cluaidh fhèin a’ dòrtadh tromham

’s gu faicinn tarsainn air Albainn gu lèir

O bhàrr nan taighean àrd ud, na skyscrapers,

Smaoinich ormsa na mo shìoda molach

No na mo sheacaid leathair anns a’ mhadainn

Cho ciùin cho ciùin

’s na sràidean air thoiseach orm mar a bha ’n Ròimh

Air toiseach nan daoine borba, bhiodh mo bhàrdachd

Cho neoichiontach ris a’ bhùrn no ris a’ pheilear

No ris an sgian fhèin airgeadach sa Mhàigh.

Iain Mac a’ Ghobhainn

Glasgow

Think

If I would come into Glasgow

dressed in velvet / in verlvet

(as did men of ballads one time)

Stopping at the red lights

moving when the turn green

(shaking / shivering like an eel)

and if I would kae poetry of every one of those houses

and put each street and light into a box

and my eyes would light up in neon

and I would be so cold so cold so warm so warm

and the clouds of whiskey would pass by

and the Clyde itself flow through me

and I would see across all of Scotland

from the top of those tall houes, the skyscrapers,

Think of me wrapped in my verlvet

or in my leather jacket in the morning

so calm so calm

and the street before me as was Rome

before the barbaric people, my poetry would be

As innocent as the water or as the bullet

or as the knife itself that gleams silver in May.

Iain Crichton Smith

Stràid Ann An Glaschu

Tha uinneagan glana nam prìosan fosgailt ,

is cailleachan tiugha a ‘ leigeil an anail ,

am broillich aig fois , ‘ s an tea seachad ;

a ‘ còmhradh ‘ s a ‘ bruidhinn , air prìs an ime ,

is cò tha pòsadh , is cò fhuair piseach ,

air àrdachadh màil , is aodach , is nithean

a thachair an dè air chùl nam balla .

Air an t – sràid a – muigh tha a ‘ chlann a ‘ ruideil ,

fear a ‘ tilleadh on bhùth , ‘ s tè a ‘ cùnntadh chlachan ,

an lomnochd còmhdaicht ‘ le òige ‘ s cion cleachdaidh ,

‘ s an sùilean gorm fo chlàbar eachdraidh .

Na mnathan òga le ‘ n aparain flùrach

a ‘ còmhradh ri chèile bho uinneig gu uinneig ,

is fìon na fala gan cumail fallain ,

saor o uallach ach airgead is daorach ,

is , theagamh , eagal cus chloinne a ghiùlain .

Na fir nan seasamh nan lèintean a ‘ bruidhinn

air eich , ball – coise is bocsairean cliùiteach ,

fear chaidh a mhurt , is Jane Russell ,

is iomadach cuspair cudthromach eile :

cha laigh smal air na h – inntinnean dripeil

tha cnuasachd na beatha – s ‘ o bhracaist gu suipeir .

‘S e grian foghair is saorsainn feasgair

a chruinnich na blàthan daonda cneasd seo

air stràid anmoch am baile Ghlaschu

goirid mum facas na speuran laiste .

Ruaraidh MacThòmais

Street in Glasgow

The clean windows of the prisons are open,

And fat old women are taking their ease,

With bosoms at peace, and tea over;

Yarning and talking of the price of butter,

And who’s to marry, and who has a baby,

The raising of rents, and clothes, and what

Happened yesterday behind the walls.

Out on the street the children are playing,

A boy’s back from the shop, a girl counts chuckies,

Youth and simplicity cover their bareness,

And their eyes are blue under history’s mire.

The young women, with their floral aprons,

Talk together from window to window,

While the wine of the blood keeps them healthy,

Free from cares, but for money and boozing,

And, perhaps, the fear of too frequent childbirth.

The men in their shirt-sleeves stand discussing

Horses and football and notable boxers,

The recent murder, and Jane Russell,

And many another weighty subject:

No gloom lies on the active minds

That consider life, from breakfast to supper.

An autumn’s sun and an evening’s leisure

Brought out these human, kindly blossoms

On a late street in the city of Glasgow,

Shortly before the sky was seen burning.

Derick Thomson

Ann an Glaschu

Ann am baile Ghlaschu

tha mi coimhead mo ròsan a’ fàs,

ròsan mo bhàrdachd.

Bha mi sabaid riut a-riamh

gus am buannaichinn ort,

gus am falbhainn anns a’ bhaile seo

le saorsa aotrom.

Ach dè na ròsan a tha sin

air taobh a-muigh a’ phub

is cearcall aodannan mun cuairt

is solas gorm a’ lasadh gun sgur.

Iain Mac a’ Ghobhainn

In Glasgow

In the city of Glasgow

I’m watching my roses grow,

the roses of my poetry.

I have always fought with you

Until I won,

Until I would leave this city

with light-hearted freedom.

But what are those roses

outside the pub

and a circle of faces around them

and blue light shining with no end.

Iain Crichton Smith